Nude Noir

I'm not sure this story is cynical enough to qualify as noir. However, I think it is something of a departure from usual Literotica fare, being as much a detective story as erotica. I wanted the title to alert readers to that. The full story requires subsequent chapters. I'm not sure this is what readers want on Literotica and I will likely wait for reader reaction to decide whether to submit any more chapters.

This story is a work of fiction. Some real institutions are mentioned, but they are used fictitiously. Insofar as the author knows, no real person affiliated with any of those institutions has ever behaved as do the characters in this story. Any similarities between any character in this story and any real person are coincidental and unintended. For the reason given above, I very much want comments on this story, both favorable and unfavorable. Thank you for reading this.

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There are ways to make a lot of money in Florida. Being a private investigator is not one of them. I know, I'm a private investigator in Tampa.

When I went to a highly selective college near Chicago, Mom and Dad wanted me to become a doctor. That aspiration died with my grade in organic chemistry. I graduated with a B.A. in economics but did not know what I wanted to do. Grad school was the obvious path, but I winced thinking about more years in school. The Chicago police department was recruiting. I applied and got in. Mom and Dad haven't spoken to me since.

I spent a couple of years in uniform, patrolling the South Side. That was an education too, but not one you would aspire to. I did a couple of things right and got to move Downtown as a newbie detective in plain clothes. I did that for six years. I think I did a decent job. I made a couple of friends in the FBI's Chicago office. They encouraged me to apply to the Bureau. I did and, again, was accepted. After training, I was assigned to Tampa. That's where things went south figuratively as well as literally.

The special-agent-in-charge ("SAC") and deputy SAC had been there a long time. They knew most of the established organized crime people. Money and favors went one way and information went the other. I saw it early on but refused to believe it. I had reached the pinnacle of American law enforcement. I could not accept that the pinnacle was rotted.

Things reached the point where I couldn't pretend nothing was going on anymore. I tipped the Bureau's internal investigators with enough specific information that they had to act. After an 18-month investigation and prosecution, both the SAC and his deputy started receiving their mail through the Bureau of Prisons.

I knew what I did was risky. I failed to appreciate what the risk was. No one in law enforcement likes a cop who rats out another, no matter what the bad cop did. The Bureau dislikes bad P.R. I had done the former and caused the latter. No criminal charges were filed against me, but a board concluded that I should have reported my bosses a couple of years sooner. I was given the FBI's version of a dishonorable discharge. No other federal, state, or local agency would hire a rat cop, especially one wearing the FBI's seal of disapproval. I became a private investigator.

One cop who thought I'd done the best I could was Tampa Detective Lieutenant Beth Potter. Beth is a good cop and a better person. Beth couldn't get me a job, but she connected me with a couple of lawyers who fed me enough investigative work to keep me from sleeping on park benches. After a few years, I had a small reputation and got some insurance fraud work. I wasn't getting rich, but my credit card was usually accepted again.

At age 43, I no longer thought about what my career should have been. I just worried about paying the rent on my apartment and a small office every month and, maybe, going to a couple of Rays' games a year. The Bucs were out of my price range.

That was my life when I got a call from a man named Paul Westerfeld. Would I meet him and his wife Lilith at a Starbuck's up in Pasco County? I'd meet anyone if it meant a chance at making a buck.

I guessed Paul and Lilith were no older than 50. I would learn later that both were in their sixties. They sure as hell did not look it. They were fit, well-dressed, and very tan. They seemed disappointed that all I ordered was a basic iced tea. Paul and Lilith owned a "resort" not far from where we met. I was smart enough not to say anything, but I hadn't heard of any resorts in Pasco this far from the water.

Paul and Lilith had a problem. It was not unusual for their cleaning staff to occasionally find traces of drug use in guests' rooms. They turned a blind eye because even drug users spend money at resorts, and they did not want police on premises for reasons I would learn. Over the last few months, the evidence of drugs at their resort had increased in frequency and volume. They were worried that someone was dealing. They didn't want that because it would scare guests off and invite official attention. "When we opened years ago," Lilith said, "the local officials welcomed us. We contribute a lot to the local economy and pay a lot in property taxes. However, there is a new group of officials, especially the Sheriff, who pander to the religious right. We think they might use drugs as a pretext to shut us down."

"What is the name of your place?" I asked.

"Bougainvillea Cove," Lilith answered. "We call it The Cove for short."

"Wait," I said, "isn't that one of those nu..."

Paul cut me off. "Yes, we are a clothing optional resort."

"Ok, so what do you want me to do?" I asked.

"We are hoping that you will come to the resort, quietly; find out if we have drug dealing going on, and, if so, find a solution to our problem," Paul answered.

"What do you mean by 'solution?'" I asked.

"Ideally," Lilith replied, "have the dealer arrested somewhere away from The Cove in a way that doesn't connect him to The Cove."

"Ok," I said, "that may be easier said than done. What do you mean by 'come to the resort quietly?'"

"As a guest," Paul said.

"You mean uncovered rather than undercover," I said.

"We are clothing optional," Paul said. "That means guests are not required to go nude. However, most do most of the time. I'm afraid you would stick out like the proverbial sore thumb if you stayed clothed."

"You do you have a wife or girlfriend who will come with you?" Lilith asked.

"Why do I need one of those?" I asked in response. The fact was I had never been married. Back in my Bureau days, I'd dated a gorgeous woman who worked with victims of sex crimes in Sarasota. She didn't want any part of my disgraceful downfall and dumped me when the Bureau fired me. Increased age and a decreased bank account had ruled out meaningful relationships since then and I wasn't a fan of the hookers I could afford.

"We have a rule against unaccompanied single males," Lilith explained. "If you were at The Cove by yourself, everyone would know something was wrong."

I stood up from the table. "Thanks for the tea," I said. "I'm afraid the only women I could bring with me charge more per hour than I do, and your guests would probably prefer the drug dealers." I walked out into the heat and got into my ten-year-old Toyota. Shit. When Westerfeld had called, I'd hoped I'd make enough on his job to get the air conditioner fixed.

Paul Westerfeld called back a couple of days later. He seemed enthused. "We found someone who will come to The Cove with you."

"A stripper?" I asked.

Westerfeld seemed hurt by that. "No, not at all," he said. "This is a respectable young woman. She goes to USF with our daughter. She's majoring in criminology."

"A respectable young woman who's willing to go buck naked with a strange man who's probably twice her age?" I asked rhetorically. "Get real."

Westerfeld got a bit huffy. "Many respectable people go nude with people whom they have not previously met, as our resort proves every day," he replied. "Pam, our daughter, says that Allison, her friend, has heard of you. Supposedly, your name came up in a class on the ethics of law enforcement. The way Pam describes it, Allison thinks you're somehow admirable."

"What are Allison's psychiatric diagnoses?" I said.

"Mr. Beck," Westerfeld said sternly (Did I forget to mention my name is Ian Beck?), what is your rate?"

"I charge $ 75 per hour or $ 700 per day if I put in ten hours or more in one calendar day," I replied.

"Forget the hourly," Westerfeld said. "We'll pay you $ 800 per day for any day you spend at least two hours on our case, and your room, food, and drinks at The Cove will be comped or reimbursed."

"Why are you so eager to have me on this?" I asked.

"Honestly," Westerfeld said, "we talked to ten investigators before you. They all turned us down flat. You're the only one willing to consider it."

I figured I could spend several days on this. That should fix my car's AC. I'd have to be careful how much I drank, but I could still put a dent in their daily bar profit without losing my effectiveness. If this Allison had nice tits, the job might be ok. "Can I meet your daughter's friend before I give you my answer?" I asked.

"I'll call you back," Westerfeld replied.

The next afternoon, I was in another coffee shop, near the USF campus, looking for a girl described as 21, slender, shoulder-length brown hair, and glasses. That description left a lot out. I suspected I was about to meet either a woman who chain-smoked and belonged at the dog show as a contestant or some ditz whose image of law enforcement came from Disney. Me "admirable?" Shit.

My mood deteriorated further when I saw that about half of the women in the coffee shop matched the description I'd been given. I was walking around, looking even dumber than usual, when a nice voice behind me said, "Mr. Beck?"

I turned and was confronted with a girl about 5'5" wearing those glasses that have big, round lenses. Her face was cute. Her loose-fitting clothes didn't show much about her body, but her tits were clearly too small for her to work at any strip club I knew.

The girl smiled and said, "I'm Allison Nance. Pleased to meet you." Something about the girl troubled me. After a second, I identified my concern. Allison Nance didn't look like a chain-smoking loser or a ditz. She looked smart and self-confident. Her face had an expression that seemed to say, "I've recognized bullshit from better BS artists than you, so don't waste your time on it." Allison led me to a booth where she had already put her I-pad and a coffee. We sat on opposite sides of the table.

"Ms. Nance," I started in my best witness-interview voice.

"Allison," she corrected. "My friends call me Ali."

"Ok Allison," I said. I wasn't conceding friendship yet. "What do you know about this matter."

"I know that Pam's parents think someone may be dealing drugs at Bougainvillea Cove," Nance said. "They're afraid Pasco County might use that to shut the resort down. They want you to go there posing as a guest to find out if there is drug dealing and who is doing it. You need a woman to go with you as part of a pretend couple. That's where I come in."

She had the basics right. "And you know what Bougainvillea Cove is?" I asked.

"Of course," Nance laughed. "It's a nudist resort."

"You are ok with that?" I asked.

"I've done my share of skinny-dipping," Nance replied. "Not in a while, though. I'm sure I have tan lines."

"Why do you want to be involved with this?" I asked.

"I knew you'd ask that," Nance replied. "There are a bunch of reasons. First, I want to help Pam's parents. Paul and Lilith are nice people. Second, it is a chance to hang out at a resort for a few days with all expenses paid. Third, it is a real investigation. That interests me, and I talked to a prof who might give me credit it for it. I didn't tell him all the details of course. Finally, I was interested to meet you. Your situation with the FBI came up in an ethics class a year ago. Most people in the class thought you were as dirty as the agents you informed on and just did it to stay out of prison yourself. I wasn't so sure."

Nance took a sip of her coffee and looked at me. "I've thought about your situation a lot, how I would handle it if I thought my superior officer was corrupt. Would I dig into it and make a credible report, or would I just go on doing my job and hope that, when the shit came down, it missed me. I thought that working with a man who has been there might help me figure that out."

That was not what I'd expected. I was starting to like Nance. She was smart enough to realize that the world isn't black and white. The real world is mostly grey. "If there are drug dealers," I said, "it will certainly be dangerous."

"Ian," Nance said, and then ducked her head in embarrassment at using my first name, "I want to be a cop. Do you think that bad guys being dangerous scares me?"

"Can you shoot?" I asked.

"I interned with Hillsborough County last summer and qualified on their range," she replied.

"Do you have a gun?"

"No," Nance replied. At least she wasn't a gun fetishist. I'd worked with one of those in Chicago, a guy always looking for an excuse to fire a few rounds. I thought people like him were dangerous as hell.

Nance looked at me. "When do we start?" she asked.

"I'll have to call the Westerfelds and let you know," I replied. We exchanged phone numbers. "They're paying me $ 800 a day," I said, hesitantly. More reluctantly, I added, "I'll split that with you."

"Don't do that," Allison said.

"Why not?" I asked.

Allison picked up her I-pad, slid out of the booth, and stood. Looking down at me, she said, "Because you need the money." She walked out of the shop. As a line to exit on, that was not bad.

I picked Allison up at her apartment on the Thursday morning before Labor Day weekend. I thought that a holiday crowd at The Cove would bring the dealer out if there was one. Not wanting to subject Allison to no air conditioning, I had rented a subcompact from Enterprise. That was all I could afford.

Allison came down the outside stairs from her second-floor apartment to the parking lot carrying only a large purse and a larger beach bag. I guess my face showed surprise that a woman would go on an overnight, potentially several nights, with so little baggage. Smiling, Allison read my mind. "Well," she said, "its not like I need clothes or swimsuits." She had me stop at a CVS on the way. We loaded up on sunscreen.

You reached The Cove by turning west off US 41 when you saw a very discreet sign. About three blocks down a secondary street you saw the tall white wooden fence on the right with the roofs of some two-story buildings behind it. You parked outside the fence and checked in at the office. Paul, Lilith, and I agreed that, since we didn't know whether resort staff were involved, Allison and I would be treated like any other guests. I handed my credit card to the clothed young lady behind the front desk and hoped that it wasn't declined.

Checked in, we got back in the car and waited for the front desk to open the gate to let us in. We went through the gate into a parking area. We got our bags and used our keycard to open a gate in a lower fence. On the other side of that fence was a pool surrounded by lounge chairs. Although it was not yet noon, many of the lounge chairs were occupied by naked people.

We had to walk between the pool and an outdoor bar to get to the building containing our room. I was trying to look straight ahead. Allison was looking all around. Enthusiastically, she said, "this is going to be fun!" I wasn't sure I shared that expectation.

Our room was on the second floor. I let Allison go up first. I kept my head down as I climbed up behind her. Dropping our bags in our room, I was unsure what to do next. Allison was not. She grabbed the hem of the sundress she was wearing and whipped it over her head. I had not realized that Allison was not wearing anything under her dress.

When I had first met Allison Nance a few days earlier, I had decided she looked "ok, not great." She had looked better in the sundress. Taking the sundress off worked a complete transformation. Allison was exceptionally beautiful in the nude. Her breasts were not huge, "handful size," but perfectly proportioned to her body with nice upturned nipples. Her hips flared just enough below flat abs and above smooth firm legs. Removing her clothes even worked a transformation in her face. I'd have sworn her face hadn't been that beautiful a few minutes earlier.

Allison turned to look at herself in a mirror, showing a perfectly shaped, tight ass that was highlighted by its pale skin in contrast to her slight tan where her bikini hadn't covered her. Allison turned back to face me and give me a second look at the pale skin of her tits and mound. "I think the tan lines work, don't you?" Allison asked.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well," Allison said with a slightly naughty look on her face, "if I take all my clothes off, that means I want people to see my tits, ass, and pussy. The contrast created by my tan lines draws your eyes to those places." They had certainly drawn mine. This was a new complication. Not only was I working with a nude woman half my age, the woman was beautiful and sexy as hell.

Before I could think through this new problem, Allison was standing right in front of me. "Your turn," she giggled as she grabbed my polo shirt and pulled it over my head. Before I could react, she undid my belt and the front hook on my jeans, pulled down my zipper, and then pulled my jeans and boxers to my ankles. I was thankful that Allison's nude body had only gotten me a little hard.

Allison stepped back and ran her eyes down my nude body. "Damn Ian," she said, "you're in great shape. Where do you work out? I thought you were broke."

"I did some work for a guy who owns a gym a few years ago," I replied. "Instead of paying me, have gave me a free lifetime membership. I'm good until he goes out of business." The only other thing I could think of to say was "What happened to your glasses?"

Allison grinned and said "contacts." Allison reached into her beach bag and pulled out two sunscreen bottles. She tossed one at me as she said, "put this on thick, and put it everywhere." I watched, mesmerized, as Allison followed her own advice. She rubbed sunscreen on herself everywhere from the tops of her ears to between her legs. She turned away again and said, "please do my back."

I've always thought women's upper backs are sexy, and Allison Nance's was. Rubbing sunscreen on it was delightful. Her skin was soft and smooth. Beneath her skin, I felt muscle, but not the hard muscle of a bodybuilder, rather the supple muscle of a fit, healthy young woman.

I stopped at Allison's waist. "Please get my ass," she said, "you can reach it better than I can." Allison giggled and added, "don't miss any spots. People burn between their cheeks too." That was all the permission I needed. I rubbed Allison's ass as thoroughly as I could, going between her cheeks and briefly brushing her asshole. "Thaaat feels great!" Allison said. Yes, I did remember to use sunscreen.

When Allison was covered in sunscreen, she turned to look at me again. "You haven't put any on yourself," she said. "That's ok, I'll do it. Close your eyes."

I closed my eyes and felt Alison's fingers, lubricated by the sunscreen, rubbing over my forehead and eyelids, down my cheeks, over my ears, and along my jaw. I opened my eyes as her hands moved onto my shoulders. Allison was looking at my body in detail. It felt good as she pressed her hands into my pecs. She ran a finger lightly along the diagonal scar on my left pec. "That looks like it was nasty once upon a time," she said.

"A guy knifed me when I was in uniform back in Chicago," I replied. "I had to buy a new uniform shirt."